


Help me, I feel like I’m drowning

by CharlieDixon



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New York Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlieDixon/pseuds/CharlieDixon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>03.05.14</p>
<p>The Rangers just lost their 3rd game in a row.</p>
<p>Henrik Lundqvist is feeling like he's drowning, but no one notices. Or maybe someone does ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Help me, I feel like I’m drowning

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously don't own those guys or the MSG not even a puck or anything, just the little idea I couldn't get out of my head until I'd wrote it down. :D
> 
> This is the first time ever I write about the NHL or some of the players, so I hope I got it right. Actually this is also the first story I post on AO3 and I haven't written anything in a long while so I hope I wasn't too rusty and I apology to you if I am.
> 
> You'll probably find that I really love the NY Rangers and especially Henrik Lundqvist.
> 
> WARNING : If you squint long enough you may found that to be a pre-slash fic (or just some close brotherhood between Brad and Hank).
> 
> Fic now being beta'ed by the lovely **msrogersstark** ! All remaining mistakes are mine :)

Three. Three games, in a row. They’d lost. While he was in the crease, he felt like screaming. But he couldn’t... He wanted to break something, maybe his paddle, a glass, a door, something, anything. But he couldn’t... He felt like something was crushing him. But nothing was. At least nothing that he could just shrug off. Guilt. That was it. He felt guilty and it made him feel sick.

Sick of losing.  
Sick of disappointing the fans.  
Sick of betraying his team.  
Sick of not being good enough...

When he gazed at the blueshirts around the arena, all he wanted was for the ground to open up and swallow him down.  
He wasn’t good enough, and all those people, who paid to see them play, to see them _win_ , well... he couldn’t deliver that.

Because he wasn’t good enough.  
Because he was a failure.

He wanted to cry.

He was the first one out of the ice, the first one into the locker room. He sat down and didn’t move for a while. His head hung low, clutching at his stick, staring at nothing. Lost.

They’d lost. The weight of it was crushing him, killing him. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t even want to...

Around him his teammates were undressing, heading to the showers, talking quietly.  
He didn’t see them, nor did he hear them. They didn’t really pay him much mind anyway. He was a goalie, he was part of the team, exept he wasn’t really part of it. He was different. And they didn’t really know how to deal with him. How to talk to him. All they knew was that losing a game was hard on him and that he needed time to recover. And that he needed more time to recover from a loss than he needed to recover from body injuries.

Or maybe they didn’t know.

Three games. Three freaking games ! He took his mask off and threw it in the room, missing Brad Richards by a few inches, who was coming out of the shower along with Benoit Pouliot. His stick fell to the floor and he buried his face in his hands, gripping tightly at his hair and breathing hard.

Brad and Benoit exchanged a glance. They shifted their gazes to the fallen mask. The broken mask. Then they moved it to Henrik, who seemed just as broken.

“You should talk to him” Pouliot said, elbowing him slightly in the ribs.

“I should, shouldn’t I ?” he answered, looking around to see if he found Cam, who wasn’t there. Actually almost all the team had already left, the few that remained were staring at their goaltender with a mix of shock and disbelief. Some of them hurried up to dress and probably ran away from the room.

Brad sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m gonna talk to him” he whispered to Ben and headed for his locker, pulling on his underwear and jeans and turning towards his friend, who hadn’t moved at all.

He stood before him but didn’t get any kind of answer. It was like he didn’t even saw him standing there, mere inches from him. He sighed and ran his hand through Henke’s hair. When he still didn’t get any response he sighed again and squatted down before him, gently taking the goalie’s hands out of his hair and down to his laps.  
What scared Brad was that he was allowed to do it, that Henke was so utterly unresponsive. Not that he had the habit to throw his teammates away but he usually was more in control of himself and of his surrounding. He inclined his face towards his own and took a sharp intake of breath at what he saw. Or what he didn’t. His eyes were blank. Dead.

“Hank ?”

“I’m sorry” he whispered before Brad could even say another word.

“Hey, there’s nothi..”

“I’m sorry” he repeated, cutting him off, voice crackling and hanging his head low again.

“I’m so sorry...” he mumbled over and over again, in broken English and, seemingly,  
Swedish.

“Hey, hey, now, look at me. Come on Hank, look at me” Brad said while angling his face so that he could look him in the eyes again.

“Why would you be sorry for ? It happens and...”

“Three games Brad ! I lost you three games ! I can’t... the fans... and the team... you signed me up for seven years and I... I can’t... I’m the damn goaltender ! If they score that’s on me, and they did ! Three games ! I’d let more than 10 goals in ! I’m not... I’m not good enough... I’m sorry... I... I’m not... I’m not good enough... I need...”

He sounded so chattered and looked so lost that Brad didn’t know what to say for a few, long seconds. Seeing their netminder like that, at the edge of crying it seemed, but unable to do so, fighting to keep his breathing under control and mostly failing... That was something he’d never saw, and something he didn’t like. Not one bit. When he ducked his head down once more Brad framed his face with his hands and forced him to look at him straight in the eye.

“Now, you will listen to me Henrik. First of all you ARE good enough. You’re one of the best goalies of the league, don’t you ever think otherwise.”

“I’m not, I...” he tried to cut Brad, but the center had had enough and didn’t let him go on.

“Shut. Up. Vezina Trophy. Enough said. You wouldn’t have it if you weren’t good enough”

“I don’t have it anymore” he retorted.

“Shut. UP. You said you let 10 in ? Do you know how many you stopped ? 80. 80 Hank ! Do you really think that any regular guy can do that ? It is NOT your fault. When we win that’s a team win, yeah ? When we lose, it’s the same”

“But I’m the goa...” he tried again only to be cut by Brad once again.

“Don’t make me gag you to shut you up. I’ll do it. You know why we lost ? Because we didn’t make enough goals. Because we weren’t there to help you around the net. Because you were alone down there. You’re the goalie, but we’re a team, you can’t take the weight of the losses on your shoulders. That’s not your burden to carry alone.”

Henrik didn’t respond to that, and Brad took it as a small victory, but the man in front of him seemed at the very end of his rope and seconds away from falling apart so he acted on instincts and pulled him closer to him. To his surprise Henke didn’t fight it, just went with it until his face was burried against his shoulder. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he felt tears running down his still naked skin. When he heard yet another “I’m sorry” breathed in his neck he put his hand in the Swedish’s hair, running his fingers in them in a soothing motion. He didn’t say anything else, just waited for his friend to pull himself back together, a comforting presence and, well, giving him a shoulder to cry on. Some minutes later Henke’s breathing seemed back to normal and he pulled back slightly, Brad let him go and faced him with all the sympathy he could muster towards him, which was a lot. He really liked the guy.

Hank cleared his throat and started on yet another apology, but it died on his lips when Brad gently glared at him.

“Thanks” he said then, with a shy, pale copy of a smile. That sure as hell didn’t reached his eyes.

“Don’t mention it. We’re not exactly playing at our best right now. Hopefully Marty and Raphael will blend in just right and we’ll be back on our game in no time” he tried to cheer.

“Yeah... and hopefully the fans won’t hate me any more than they do at the moment” he answered.

“Hey, you know why they’re so upset ? Because they love you too much. Once we’ll be back on our skates, they’ll forget everything and start chanting “Lundqvist” all over again.”

“It’s not what I meant, or what I want, I won’t lie it’s amazing but...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know don’t worry. I’m just teasing. What I’m saying is that they’ll come back, once we will, they’ll do too. The true ones are still there, if you understand what I’m saying, because I’m not sure there is such a thing as a false fan but, you know ?” he asked, not sure how to explain what he wanted to say.

“Yeah, I do, I think”

“Good, now take your gear off and go take a shower so we can head back home”

“Right... sorry about that. You can go, I’ll take a cab” he answered, looking slightly ashamed.

“Don’t be stupid, I’ll drive you back” there was a finality in his tone that bore no room for any argumentation.

“Ok...” Henke replied.

Brad smiled at him brightly and stood up. On an impulse he bent down close enough to put an affectionate kiss on Henrik’s forehead and went back to his locker to put his shirt on.  
The netminder didn’t move for another couple of seconds before he started to undress and headed for the showers.

Brad sat down on a bench as he waited. He started to think about what had just happened and he lost his smile. He hadn’t see what the losses had done to Henrik. What kind of friend and teammate was he ? He knew that Hank hated to lose, but he hadn’t see how devastating it had been for him, those past three games. He’d let his attention be drawn to Cally’s departure of the team, to everything that was said about his demands, the contracts, the drafts, to Martin St. Louis and Raphael Diaz arrivals, and he hadn’t see that one of his teammates was drowning. What kind of Ranger was he, really ? They were supposed to take care of each others, to watch their backs, to act like Rangers, like hockey players, like friends and family. But he hadn’t see, hadn’t paid attention when he needed to.  
He looked up when Hank got out of the showers and walked to his locker, smiling shyly at him and oh so slightly blushing. That was new, and strangely endearing. He smiled too and waited for his friend to be ready to go.

Once they were in the car Brad observed Henrik sideways, and even though he looked better than half an hour ago, he still was out of his usual charismatic persona. He didn’t want for him to mope alone that night, so he decided to crash at Henke’s condo. He’d say that he was tired and didn’t want to drive back home. Which was actually kind of true. Henrik didn’t put up any fight, believing him or maybe he didn’t want to do it. Maybe he was relieved because he didn’t want to be alone.

When he settled in the spare room Brad swore to himself that from now on he’d pay carefull attention to his teammates. He’d never let anything like that happen ever again.

Nothing is worse than a silent cry for help.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any comments—especially constructive criticism—are more than welcomed and would be really appreciated. ;)
> 
> The thoughts about the fans reactions are actually mine towards all those "let's trade King Loser" like he didn't came back from Sochi with silver around his neck - and actually played the game almost alone against the Canadians - and didn't make some of the most wicked saves we've ever seen !


End file.
